Kenya from a Michigander’s view

By Ralph Ward, Special to the Sun

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Ward is the author of the newsletter “Boardroom Insider” and several books including “Improving Corporate Boards,” and “Boardroom Q and A.” A guest on several national programs, including CNNFN, Bloomberg Money Show and NPR, Ward resides in Gratiot County.

4/3/14

My boardroom seminar has now brought me to Kenya.

The flight in was tolerable, and I arrived at the airport at night. Thank God there was a driver (in a rattly old jitney bus) to bring me to the hotel in town, town being Nairobi.

I saw little of Nairobi that night, mostly edge city things, like shabby car sales agencies and industrial equipment offices. However, the seminar was not to be at the hotel in town. Instead, it started the next day at a nature center some 80 kilometers out in the bush, the Lake Elementeita camp. I was met by my host, Andrew, along with a driver and another of the battered white busses.

“Jambo!” the universal Kenyan greeting.

The drive was long, and an adventure of its own. The route goes along Kenya’s Great Rift Valley, with spectacular mountains and lakes along the route. It was a bit hard to notice though, due to the driving situation.

In town, Kenyan traffic rules are thus – pedestrian crossings are wherever someone chooses to trot across the road, usually without looking. Cars are expected to stop, unless they don’t. Main roads are narrow, two-lane affairs that carry the traffic of a four-lane in the US. There are many smoking, overloaded trucks plugging up and down the hills, along with the aforementioned battered jitney busses, all brightly decorated and packed with passengers. There are few passing zones, so drivers simply make their own, turning two lanes into three. By the time we arrived at the camp, I’d grown used to cars pointed at us, a second away from a head-on crash.

The route included lots of local living, run down encampments with storefronts painted as one enormous sign for Panadol, Coke, or other local brands. Lots of busy trade going one, folks squatting in front of their displays of fruit, knickknacks, basic toiletries, clothing, tourist junk, soft drinks, in short all the necessities of favela life.

We stopped at one turnout to take some photos of a spectacular valley lake, and I was set upon by a native hustler who knew a good, pale mark when he saw one. He offered carved alabaster figurines at a price that translated to $160US. My frequent walking away and being pursued by him led to a heroic round of haggling, and I ended up getting a knickknack for $20, which was still too damn much.

The route was also busy with locals, particularly school kids in uniform, and agriculture workers. The latter were herding cattle, sheep, goats and donkeys near and often across the road (my companion on the trip assured me the animals were smart enough to avoid being struck by cars, which if true gives them one up on Michigan’s deer). This being Kenya’s farm belt, there were also sheep and cow skins for sale on the way, though I don’t know the price for fleece.

After about 90 kilometers of adventure, we arrived at Lake Elmenteita, site of the Soysambu Conservancy and a nature camp. We were out in the mid-African bush, and bounced over a rough path for at least a mile, passing through two security gates. These were heavy affairs with electrical fencing, and are in use because this is primarily a nature reserve.

The handy guide I have here notes giraffes, buffaloes, leopards, hyenas, jackals, elands, impalas, warthogs, and a staggering array of birds, particularly flamingos and pelicans. I saw some zebras on our way in. I wondered if we were headed to Camp Jurassic Park.

The actual resort at the end of this path is a bizarre combo of rustic and luxe. Large, ornate local building structures are topped with tent roofs. The individual lodges are similar, an inner construction like fairly nice lodging walls, and outside open, with heavy screening, light shades, and other faux safari stuff. The bathroom is world class, with two showers. No TV or newspapers, though – you’re here to contemplate nature.

The rear view from my room looks out upon Lake Elmenteita, as well as the surrounding mountains, and is simply stunning. There is bush the quarter mile or so to the lake, but only 100 feet outside the back patio is a trench with an electric fence running through it, a good thing since rhinos, giraffes, wart hogs, and such critters use the lake as their watering hole.

The first night here was instructive. I live in the country, and am used to dark and quiet. But the African bush at night is seriously dark and quiet. Spooky. Then, in the course of the night, the still is broken by animal sounds, as in urgent, we-mean-business sounds. A loud SNORT, followed by wuffwuffwuff (either a wart hog or water buffalo). A screech that resembles a jet engine’s bearings burning out at full throttle. A shrill, prolonged yelp (hyenas or jackals). I peeked out the back door to see the silhouette of a small deer with long spike horns.

The best came at dawn. Several shifts of birds would loudly pitch in with their unique songs. They didn’t overwhelm each other, though, but almost seemed to take turns. I suspect they were each giving species’ morning news updates.

My conference proceeded over a couple of days. I found the Kenyans thoughtful, savvy and eager to improve the country’s business climate, though fatalistic about overcoming the local corruption, cronyism and statism.

At the end of the first day, the resort offered a lakeside cocktail hour, with bonfire and a local musician serenading us on guitar. Hearing a local Kenyan singing, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” made me realize the song was personal around these parts. Trying to soothe your children by telling them the lion is sleeping, and thus won’t eat you tonight, remains a very recent memory. Later, as the cocktails flowed, the singer lead the assembled Kenyans in singing along with him in a sort of mangled Kenny Rogers (Kenya Rogers?) medley, at which point I called it a night.

The day after the conference, my local host, a businessman named Andrew, packed the two of us into a Toyota van with a driver for some sightseeing on our way back to Nairobi. Andrew was the conference planner who had booked me, and had decided that I shouldn’t leave the country without taking in some Kenyan culture. (When I speak at foreign destinations, the bookers take two general approaches. Most fuss over getting me in on time, but after my program, stuff a return ticket in my pocket and move on to their next extravaganza. Some though, are more boosterish, and treat me like a minor dignitary. They insist on showing me local cultural, historical and natural wonders.

I have to bear this with an often numbing politeness, assuring them that my tour of their World Yam Museum or such was a highlight of my visit, and that yams are a splendid vegetable indeed.)

This entertainment was more intriguing, though. We proceeded a few kilometers north of Lake Ementetia to the Lake Nakuru National Park. This enormous wildlife refuge surrounds the lake itself, and is a world center for pink flamingos. The driver took a wrong turn in getting there, and led us through a truly shabby neighborhood of Nakuru. Slums, open sewers, shops selling junk, chickens, old tires, piles of burning garbage, street food vendors, and all the things that make up life in the real world.

We made it into the Lake Nakuru grounds finally (after a wait at registration – apparently someone hadn’t received their usual “tip”), and spent over two hours driving its kilometers of trails.

The park covers several ecosystems in itself, from savanna, to marsh, to dry bush, to volcanic rocks. Oh, the animals – zebras, water buffalo, warthogs, baboons, giraffes. Herds of many small deer, such as waterbucks, elands, oryxs and other venison from crossword puzzles. All were old pros at humans motoring by to view them. The water buffalo, particularly, stood in a swale hole 20 feet from our vehicle, mud covered, staring, and gave a mild snort that seemed less threatening than dismissive. Wild animals seem to view all other animals as a threat, a mate, or lunch. If none of the above (as humans in the park have proven themselves) they apparently find us invisible.

Catch of the day was a white rhino, in fact two. The first we saw idling along in an open field, and a side path brought us near him. The driver wisely backed into the path for a quick getaway. Mr rhino strolled along perhaps 100 feet away. He halted, took a truly heroic piss, like a fire hydrant opened full blast, and then ambled along. Rhinos are not to be trifled with at either end.

The paths in Lake Nakuru varied from the mild (in fact, at times I thought we could be motoring through the woods path behind home) to rocky fields that would stymie a Mars rover. The Toyota van braved it all, even surmounting the path to a mountain lookout that was both craggy and must have been near a 45 degree angle. A word about these vans. They are universal in Kenya, of various makes, but overwhelmingly Toyota (a global observation – the world drives Toyota). They seem squarer and slightly larger than the Toyota vans familiar in the US (the rest of the world gets some great little vehicles that never come to America). Set up to carry half a dozen passengers, they are an all-purpose jitney, tour vehicle, and damn near indestructible. Ours had a popup top, which allowed me to stand up while we joggled along, chatting with giraffes, watching for lions, and waving to the baboons.

The drive back south to Nairobi was the same long one that had brought us up days earlier. To break up the journey, we stopped first at a Nakumatt supermarket in the tonier part of town.

At the cocktail party previously, a Kenyan lady had explained the importance of proper tea, and I’d been assigned by the missus to bring some home, so a buying stop was in order. The specific tea I’d sampled was masala tea, Kenyan leaf tea brewed with milk, ginger, honey and spices. Once I caught my breath after sampling, I decided I had to bring this home to my wife, and my tea expert thoughtfully wrote out the ingredients. Prices are reasonable, though in Kenyan shillings they seem a bit high. A grocery tab of 1700 shillings came to around $20 US.

We were a bit puckish by this time, and made a roadside stopoff at a proper Kenyan eatery. A hand-painted sign advertised the place as a “Butchery,” my first clue that I was no longer in McDonaldsland.

Inside, I had a better view of this restaurant’s production line. In the window hung carcasses of beef, goats, mutton, and for all I knew some of those crossword puzzle deer we’d seen earlier. These were chopped to manageable size by guys with machetes, then handed over to a basic, open-fire cookery, where they were salted, and then broiled over open fires. Next to this was an approximate takeout counter, complete with a Coke sign overhead. The place was busy with locals, and Andrew told me such Kenyan truckstops were very big with travelers. There was a crude handwashing station near the entrance, and I managed to convince it to spurt out some water (more on this later).

We swept off a table and ordered, my choice being the mutton (goat is even better, but I’d already had that the night before at our encampment dinner). In a few minutes the waitress brought a plate with a large, white doughy slab on top, and a bowl of chilies, garlic and spices. The meat was handled thus: a carver brought a grilled joint of whichever animal caught your fancy, and shaved off onto a cypress board however many grams you’d ordered. He’d then chop it on into bite-sized chunks, say the Masai equivalent of “Enjoy!,” and I was on my own.

Well, not really on my own. Andrew a thoughtful host, showed me the Kenyan ways of dining. First, grab barehanded a golf ball-sized wad of the white mass, which was ugali, cooked white cornmeal, and a staple food. Roll it with one hand into a ball, and flatten out. Use this as a scooper to pick up chunks of meat, the chili mix, or whatever else you chose to eat at hand and pop the mini-sandwich into your mouth. The dough is largely flavorless, and usually salted or splashed with sauce (U.S. Tabasco sauce is universal in Kenya). Using food as play-dough is not as messy as you’d think (Andrew told me that making properly non-sticky ugali is a crucial skill for Kenyan brides).

Since there are no knives or forks (or napkins, for that matter), I was free to eat like a kindergartner. After a few tries, I was making the ugali into a proper instrument, and enjoyed the meal. The only problem was my mutton, which was tasty (if a bit gritty from the firewood), but must have come from a very tough old sheep. I ate as much as my teeth could manage, and learned why Kenyans are big on using toothpicks.

On leaving, I learned that the handwashers were properly used after eating, but it was still hard to do a proper washing job with only a dribble of water and no soap. Remember this when shaking hands with a Kenyan.

I spent a final night in the hotel back in downtown Nairobi. My plane home wasn’t set to leave until later that night, so my hosts saw fit to give me a tour of more scenic Kenya. A driver picked me up in another of the beloved, battered Toyota vans around 10am, and we were off to the Kenya’s Sheldrick elephant sanctuary. This is where baby elephants from around the region, orphaned by poachers or accidents, are raised. Baby anythings tend to be cute, and little elephants the size of sheepdogs especially so. Tourists can’t resist petting them when on display, even though lolling about in the rust-colored water holes gives little jumbo a coppery look. The sanctuary knows its tourists, and offers an adopt-an-elephant program, which even gives sponsors a webcam view of their baby’s growth.

From there we traveled to the African Fund for Endangered Wildlife giraffe farm. If anything, the tourist/cute level amped up even further here, with a raised platform allowing you to hand-feed and pet giraffes at their level. Signs warned of headbutting, but somehow the overwhelming goofiness of giraffes turns everyone (especially white western tourists) into “oh gee, they’re adorable!” fans.

I’d had enough wildlife by this point and asked the driver to point our van back toward the hotel. Before taking on the even wilder life of Nairobi traffic, though, he stopped at a tourist and curio store tucked away near the giraffe farm.

This covered a good deal of square footage, though the building seemed assembled mainly from stray pieces of sheet metal and wood that could be assembled to keep the rain out. There was a vast assemblage of trinkets, prints, and jewelry, but primarily wood carvings -- tribal masks, idols, statues, figurines, and general knickknacks. Some of the ebony pieces were the size of ship figureheads, and how you’d ever ship such a thing back to the other side of the world is a mystery.

I bargained a bit with the owner over a pair of tree-bark book/computer tablet covers for my daughters, but the dickering didn’t go far. I’ve had a bit of experience in this in my global touring, but the Kenyans seem very poor bargainers.

Normally, you expect him to name a high price, and then counter with a low-ball offer, working your way toward an acceptable middle. Whether from their thinking all Americans are rich or what, I don’t know, but Kenyan merchants start with a very, even ridiculously high price, such as to discourage your from even playing the game. One of the tree-bark book covers started at a Kenya price that translated to $126 US, when a reasonable starting bid would be one-tenth that.